Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997)

by Margaret George

  Bending the knee to Octavian entailed great humiliation--even for his "cherished" sister. How much more for his fellow Triumvir?

  And as day after day went by, I grew used to the waiting. It became part of me.

  Mardian even set himself the challenge of finding literary references to "waiting" and "patience," seeking help from the librarian of the Museion.

  "Homer says in the Iliad, The fates have given mankind a patient soul,' " he ventured one day.

  "That is so general as to mean nothing," I said. Indeed it was; plenty of men had no patience at all.

  " 'Patience is the best remedy for every trouble,' wrote Plautus," he offered another day.

  "Another generality!" I scoffed.

  "Here's an obscure one, then," he said. "Archilochos wrote, 'The gods give us the harsh medicine of endurance.' "

  "Why should it be from the gods?" I felt argumentative. "Sappho understands it better. She says, 'The moon and Pleiades are set. Midnight, and time spins away. I lie in bed, alone.' "

  "Ahem," Mardian demurred. "Why do you want to torture yourself by reading Sappho?"

  "Poetry consoles me at the same time it inflames me," I said.

  "You should know better," he sniffed. "It's poison for the soul!"

  Another day he presented a paper from Epaphroditus, who had found a quote from the scriptures of his religion. "He quotes from a scroll called Lamentations, and it says, The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, for the soul that seeketh him.' "

  I laughed. "It isn't the Lord I'm waiting for."

  "My dear, I give up. Inflame yourself with Sappho--or whomever you like. But it isn't helping!" He looked very stern.

  I read poetry only late at night, when Charmian and Iras had retired, when the curtains in my room were gently stirring. The night stretched out before me, and the words from people centuries dead seemed to carry an authority that the words of the living never did. They did console; they whispered; they made me feel thankful that--whatever the pain of it--I was alive, while they, poor wretches, were dead.

  .

  Later we will have a long time to lie dead, yet the few years we have now we live badly.

  .

  That was what they told me: that was what they warned me of.

  .

  It was during the day that I expected to receive the news. That was when ships docked and unloaded, when land me^engers arrived. So late at night, as I half-lay, half-sat, on a couch on my roof terrace, watching the moonlight sliding on the harbor waves, indulging myself in poetry and Arabian candied melons, I barely looked up as one of my lowliest chamber attendants brought me a letter.

  "Leave it here," I said, waving my hand toward a mother-of-pearl bowl that I used for unimportant trinkets. I was too involved in the delicious verses of Catullus to stop; they were as high-flavored and (I suspected) as unhealthy as the candies. I was thankful I had learned Latin after all, the better to partake of his agonies and yearnings.

  .

  Odi et amo: quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

  .

  I hate and love.

  And if you ask me why, I have no answer, but I discern, can feel, my senses rooted in eternal torture.

  .

  How un-Roman! That, in addition to his "inflammatory" ideas, made him even more forbidden.

  Only when I grew sated on the excess of emotion--I actually felt wrung out by the time I set him aside--did I idly pick up the letter and open it.

  "My dearest and only wife, I am coming to you.--M. A." was all it said.

  The plain and simple words were the most eloquent I had ever read, and belittled all the literary raptures I had so admired.

  My dearest and only wife, I am coming to you.

  Antony himself was already here, and had sent the letter from the harbor below. I had so delayed reading it that he stood on the threshold of my chamber by the time I had finished.

  I heard the door being opened, heard footsteps. What now? I thought, annoyed at the intrusion. I wanted to reread the letter, ponder it. I stood up and looked inside, into the darkness of the room.

  "Charmian?" I said. No one else would dare to enter at midnight.

  There was no answer. Drawing my robe around me, I stepped inside.

  Someone was standing there, face hidden by a voluminous hood.

  "Who are you?" I demanded. How did he get past the guards? From the size, I knew it was a man.

  Still the hooded figure was silent.

  "Who are you?" I repeated. If there was no answer this time, I would call the guards.

  "Don't you know me?" said Antony's voice, as he pulled back the hood. Swiftly he crossed the floor and caught me up in his arms, holding me tightly.

  I could not speak, first because no words would come, and then because he was kissing me so fiercely.

  "I will never leave your side again," he was saying, between kisses. "I vow it with all my soul."

  I was able to pull my arm free and reach out and touch his face. He was really there; he was not an apparition brought on by the swimming of my senses in dreams and desires.

  I took his hand and led him over to the bed, where we sat quietly. I pushed the cloak from his shoulders and let it fail. It had been five years almost to the day since he had been here, in my Alexandrian bed. I had been alone in it a long time.

  "Nor will I let you," I whispered. "You have had your chance to escape. Now you must stay forever."

  "There is no other reality for me than here," he said.

  And I welcomed him back into my heart, my bed, and my life.

  lacta alea est: The die is cast. As Caesar had crossed the Rubicon into forbidden territory, now Antony had sailed down the eastern end of the Mediterranean to Egypt, his embraced destination, his future, his fate.

  Chapter 62.

  By morning the word was out not only in the palace but all over Alexandria: Marcus Antonius had taken up residence here. But in what guise had he come? Was he the Roman Triumvir, or the Queen's husband, or the King of Egypt? How were they to treat him? Luckily, Antony himself seemed to have no concerns about it; it was enough for him to be here and let others worry about what to call him or what his official status was.

  "How very eastern," I told him that morning as he dismissed the stammering valet with an airy "Call me what you will, so long as it isn't fool." "You know we like to leave things ambiguous."

  "Yes, that is why the Romans perceive you as so slippery," he said. He padded over to the window and looked out at the beckoning harbor, the green of the water shading slowly into the blue of the sky. Where they touched, a glorious soft blend of colors was produced. He looked content, a man well pleased with where he was. He raised his arms above his head and stretched. "When my clothes are sent up from the ship, I'll get dressed." He had left everything on board. "In the meantime I suppose I could wear that robe of your father's--if you still have it."

  As if I would have ever discarded it, having kept it so long. It was the robe he had worn in his own quarters, and I had memories of it draping him as we played board games or he read quietly. Even so, it was jeweled and had patterned sleeves; a Ptolemy is never unadorned.

  As soon as he had it on, he asked for the children. "And there's one I've never even seen," he reminded me.

  The twins came running in; Alexander jumped on him and tried climbing up on him, like a monkey, and Selene hugged his knees, her eyes closed.

  "Did you bring back lots of the enemy?" asked Alexander. "Are they in cages?"

  "Well--not with me," Antony admitted.

  "But you did get lots, didn't you?" Alexander said. "What are you going to do with them?"

  "I haven't made up my mind yet," Antony said. "Sometimes that is the hardest part."

  "Maybe we can eat them!" He shrieked with laughter. "Make a stew!"

  "You are a bloodthirsty little devil," Antony said. "Now, who could you have got that from? I don't think they would make a very go
od stew--they are too lean and stringy." He turned to Selene. "You don't want Parthian stew, do you?"

  She shook her head slowly, and made a face. "Taste bad," she said.

  "Right you are. I'm sure it would taste very nasty." He looked up as the nurse brought in the baby, propped in the crook of her arm.

  Little Ptolemy Philadelphos had hair standing up at full attention on top of his head, and bright, dark eyes. He was just perfecting his grin and practiced it on everyone, but Antony imagined it was just for him.

  He looked down at him. "What a child!" There was no hiding the pride in his voice. "But his name--can't we find something more--personal?"

  I took the baby; he was six months old now and noticed everything around him. He tugged on my hair with his fat hands. "I tried, but it was no use. Roman names are so unimaginative; you only have about twenty first names, and since they run in families, that really means you have only about five you are allowed to choose from. What were your brothers' names--Lucius and Gaius? So ordinary."

  "Well, Ptolemy Philadelphos is anything but ordinary. But it sounds like a monument."

  I put him down and watched him start to inch across the polished floor; creeping was a new art with him. "I hope a nickname will present itself," I said. "He has such shiny eyes . . . perhaps something there. ..."

  "Or if you must have a monument, then Monumentum," said Antony, with a laugh. "And he has hair like quills--too bad we can't call him Erinaceus, 'Hedgehog.' "

  "I can see all the obligatory Antonias and Marcuses stifled your imagination. But I won't allow my son to be called Hedgehog!"

  "Perhaps the Alexandrians will name him, as they did Caesarion," he said. "And where is Caesarion?"

  "Most likely riding. He has fallen in love with his horse," I said. "It is the age for that."

  In the flat reaches beyond the eastern city walls lay the Hippodrome--the horse-racing arena--and the pastures and training grounds connected with the royal stables. I had guessed right in thinking that Caesarion would be there, as I had guessed right in presenting him with a wonderful horse. He had named him Cyllarus, after a horse tamed by a Greek hero, and had almost deserted the palace for the stables ever since.

  He was riding briskly along near the fence, his long legs gripping the flanks of the horse firmly, guiding him that way rather than by the bridle. Cyllarus responded, finely in tune, turning this way and that with only a nudge of Caesarion's knee. Then, still not aware of our presence, he leaned forward and, by this shift in his posture, signaled that it was time for speed. The horse immediately broke into a gallop, and Caesarion leaned along his neck, out of the wind, seeming almost part of the animal, absorbing his motion as he ran.

  I saw it at the same time as Antony: It was Caesar himself, exactly the way he rode. As he had ridden that last day we were together.. . .

  The memory, so sharp it actually hurt inside my chest--the antidote, the sweet rush of pride in seeing his son create him anew. .. .

  "Caesarion!" I waved to catch his attention. Then, turning to Antony, I saw the look of astonishment on his face.

  "I thought never to behold this again," he said quietly. He seemed shaken. "The shades stir to life once more."

  Far down the field, Caesarion slowed Cyllarus by gradually shifting his own balance, then guided him in our direction. He sat up straight now, looking curiously over the horse's ears, watching us. As he approached, the uncanny resemblance to Caesar faded a bit, dissolving in the very youth of Caesarion's face. The deepset eyes were neither wary nor weary, nor were they surrounded by lines. The firm mouth cut across a smooth, untried face.

  "Mother," he said, nodding, as he slid off the horse. "Triumvir." He acknowledged Antony. Clearly he did not know how to address him, or even whether to smile at him.

  "You are a born cavalryman," said Antony, in genuine admiration.

  Now Caesarion smiled. "Do you think so?" He tried not to look too pleased.

  "Indeed. If you were three or four years older, I would speak to General Titius or Plancus about you. How old are you--fourteen?" He knew very well the boy was only twelve, but he knew equally well what twelve-year-old boys like to hear.

  "No, I am--I will be twelve next month." He drew himself up.

  "Ah," said Antony. "You have long outgrown the lizard. Remember him?"

  "Remember him? He only died last year!" More and more of the boy was peeking out.

  "We've brought a raven that talks," said Antony. "But I don't always like what he says."

  "Why?"

  "It's either nonsense or insulting."

  Caesarion giggled. Then a silence descended, a silence that grew quickly.

  Sensing the moment, and galloping into it as he dashed into the field, Antony took my hand. "Your mother was good enough to marry me, although I am just an ordinary man--not royal, nor godlike like Caesar. But I have long memories of him, going back years before he ever came to Egypt, and perhaps I can tell you whatever you wish to know about him. I know things about him even your mother doesn't! And I'll teach you what he taught me about soldiering, in the forests of Gaul and on the field of Pharsalus. I think he'd like that. In fact, that's the only reason I married the Queen--to come back to you, and Alexandria." He turned to me with a laugh.

  "Yes, that's probably trye," I said. "That, and wanting Egyptian ships."

  Caesarion smiled. "I am happy to have you back. I have missed you," he said quietly.

  Yes, that had been part of the heartache for me--knowing Caesarion had become attached to him, only to lose him.

  "And I have missed you," said Antony. "I have a son near your age--oh, not quite so old!--only ten or so. Just as you are 'little Caesar,' he's little Antony'--Antyllus. Perhaps he'll visit sometime, and you two can gang up on me."

  Antyllus was his son by Fulvia, and until that moment he had not spoken of him to me. He made it easy for me to forget that there were people he cared about still in Rome, and whom he had little likelihood of seeing now. I had been so wrapped up in my rivalry with Octavian and Octavia that I had overlooked the rest of his ties and family there. No wonder he wanted to return for a visit.

  But he mustn't--no, he mustn't!

  "Why, we shall have to invite him," I said quickly. "Yes, let him come to us in Alexandria!"

  We were lounging on couches in our private dining room--exactly nine of us for the nine places. Protocol was ignored, joyously. All three children were crowded together on one couch, where they could spill and kick each other; Antony and I faced each other across the couches we shared with Iras, Charmian, Mardian, and Olympos. Mardian discreetly took the middle place between Antony and Olympos, his ample proportions pushing them apart.

  This was my family--these were the people who would give their lives for me, and I for them. With all their faults, weaknesses, shortcomings, they still were my only armor and refuge against the ills that fate could harbor.

  Olympos was observing Antony's hand, watching how he used it in eating--did he bend it easily? Did it function well? The gods help him if he would do something so direct as to ask!

  "You did a good job, Olympos," I said, startling him. "The Triumvir's hand has mended nicely."

  Olympos scowled at me. Only in families are we allowed to embarrass one another by reading each other's thoughts--and revealing them. "So I can see for myself," he said.

  "You saved my hand, you miracle worker!" said Antony. He waved it about, not bothering to put down the bread he was holding. "Yes, it was about to fall off!" he told a wide-eyed Alexander. "So Olympos put a magic drain in it, and all the poison ran out."

  "Oh, really," said Caesarion.

  "No, that's true," I said. "It was a device from ancient medicine that Olympos rediscovered."

  "I learned a great deal about wounds from treating your battered army," Olympos admitted. "I got more practice there than many physicians do in a lifetime. I wish--it might be interesting to--" He quickly stopped himself, and began to nibble hungrily on a crisp piece of
honeyed lamb.

  "To do what?" I was curious to know what had caught his interest.

  "To study a little further in Rome," he said. "That capital of the world of war wounds."

  "Why, Olympos, you insisted that Rome had nothing to teach Greece in medicine," I reminded him. I had had such a time in persuading him--if that is the word--to go to Rome.

  "Wounds aren't medicine," he said stubbornly. "The treatment is different. Greeks study disease; war wounds are accidents."

  "Well, why don't you go to Rome?" said Antony quickly. "We promise not to get ill while you are gone. Or go to war."

  Olympos shrugged. "Oh, it was just a thought. I am not an army surgeon. Here in Alexandria, our emergencies are of a different sort. It was a foolish idea," he insisted.

  "I think you should go to Rome," said Caesarion in a loud, clear voice. "And take me with you."

  I turned to look at him, reclining on his elbow, his plain tunic making him look like any youth in the land. "What?" I said.

  "I want to go to Rome," he said. "I want to see it. I've been studying Latin for three years now. My father was Roman, and you keep talking about my legacy from him, which Octavian has stolen, but I've never seen it. I can't even picture it--or Rome, or Romans!"

  "You've certainly seen plenty of Romans," said Olympos, jumping into the breach. "They are all over the world. You can't avoid them." He put down his cup and looked sternly at the boy. "So there's no reason to go to Rome, just to see Romans."